Out of Order
by skyspireskit3
Summary: The Five Stages of Grief, as experienced by MK, Nod, Mandrake, and Ronin.
1. MK

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

* * *

_DENIAL_

"I'm home, Mo—"

The words shrivel in MK's throat as she steps through the doorway.

Black funeral nylons too tight on her legs, long skirt hindering her strides ("_This skirt sucks, Mom. I can barely walk."_ _"Oh, honey, just try it. For me."_), she stumbles into a chair.

Bright yellow note still stuck to the fridge with the Eiffel Tower magnet: _Have a great day! Love, Mom._

The tiny glass penguin watches her from the bookshelf. A Mother's Day present, all MK could afford with her lemonade stand money but Mom had laughed, said it was cute and never let it get dusty.

The apartment feels alien, too big, too dark. Unrecognizable without Mom's sunny face to keep it lit.

MK hugs herself and feels sick.

The service had been mercifully short, a clockwork parade of near-strangers who offered condolences but didn't know what else to say. Her Aunt Lisa, who she's only met twice, had tearfully crushed her into a sweaty acre of cleavage and asked her if she needed a place to stay for the night.

She'd said no. She thought she could do this.

She watched her mother waste away, saw the sparkle dim from her eyes and her lovely skin turn to paper as the cancer leeched out her life. She even touched her mother's glass-cold brow before the coffin lid closed. But now she's listening for familiar slipper-softened footsteps, dainty ex-ballerina feet and a beaming smile. Mom _always_ had a smile, no matter how lousy work was or how deep the tired pouches beneath her eyes ran…

Her mother is dead.

Her mother is dead and she watched it happen and still she's waiting for Mom to leap out like a kid at the end of hide and seek, ha ha, it was all a joke!

How can this be home without her mother?

How can home _be_ without her mother?

MK gets up, chair legs scraping back against worn linoleum, and wanders in search of a ghost.

00

_ANGER_

The shriek of breaking glass ringing in her ears, MK slumps onto the floor beside her bed and grips her head in her hands, her knuckles stinging. Gazing down at the old photograph in its splintered fame on the floor, the cracks from her fist warping three happy smiling faces from another time. Mom, Dad, and Mary Katherine. She grits her teeth until her jaws ache.

It's not fair to be angry at Mom, she knows. Not fair to hate Mom. But the rage froths up like acid bile all the same.

_Why did you leave me?_

Her father's number sits on a crumpled sticky note by the phone. There's no one else.

Her dad. Her dad who is forgotten birthdays and hurried, rambling phone calls maybe once a year and an empty space next to Mom on the basketball bleachers even though he _promised_…

He hadn't even shown up at the funeral.

She _hates_ him.

_"Honey, you have to try. You have to give him a chance."_

_Dammit, Mom. You knew._ _You _knew.

She kicks the photograph away, scattering glass and shattered wood and those lying, smiling faces far from her.

_Why did you leave me with_ him?

00

_BARGAINING_

When she was younger, MK had thought the problem with her father was _her_. She hadn't been enough for her dad. Not good enough of a daughter, not good enough to make him look up from his microscope, to make him stay home instead of heading out into the woods all night with that funny hat on his head. Not enough to make him show up at school when all the other parents did. Not enough to make him care.

She knew he had loved her, once. She'd never been sure why he'd stopped, always wondered what she had done, why there were suddenly no more stories before bed because he was busy at his desk or outside. No more shared popsicles on the porch while watching the fireflies. Sometimes not even a glance at her when he would rush through a room, his face buried in a notebook.

Years later, Mom told her "It wasn't you, honey. Your father just got obsessed," but wouldn't tell her exactly with what, so it had done little to mend her heart.

She knows now that it wasn't her fault. Dad just got crazy, that was all. She knows about the five stages of grief, this is Bargaining, she _knows_ that. But the old, bewildered hurt is out of its grave, faster than she can pile the dirt back on.

If she'd been _better_, would Mom have lived?

People got better from cancer all the time, miraculous recoveries, the will to leave. All for their loved ones. Why couldn't her mother have had that?

_If I'd been better… if I'd been _enough_…maybe… maybe…_

_Mom, I'm sorry._

00

_DEPRESSION_

Waking is hard.

Eyes pry open to stale air, crushing grief sitting in wait on her chest with the first breath she draws. She sleeps in her mother's bed, wrapping herself in her mother's scent and sheets that feel cold no matter how long she lies there. She doesn't want to wake up, not into a world without Mom.

But every morning the radio alarm drills through her ears and its all she can do to drag herself to school, where the teachers' lectures are underwater-mumbles that can't hold her focus. She skips basketball because the burn of sweat and pumping muscle that she used to love is just too much, and she goes home and hides in bed until it starts all over again.

Her mother is still around every corner of the apartment. Her last note still on the fridge. The glass penguin sits and stares.

MK huddles beneath icy sheets and wishes it would all just _stop_.

00

_ACCEPTANCE_

It's her favorite photograph. In it, the world is bright and Mom is beautiful the way she was before the doctor came in with scans and sympathetic eyes. This is how she wants to remember her mother.

MK takes one last walk through the bare apartment. No furniture, no post-it notes, everything sold or stored away. For herself, just one small suitcase, packed with clothes and money for a cab because she doubts her father will come to pick her up at the station. Her train leaves in two hours.

The emptiness smells like old paint and sawdust, Mom's perfumes faded away. It could be anyone's apartment, like no one ever lived here at all. It feels like the start of something new.

_ "Give him a chance, honey."_

_I'll try, Mom. For you._

She packs the photo, the very last thing, and drags her bag out the door.

_'Bye, Mom._


	2. Nod

_DENIAL_

Nod is eight years old and his dad's friend Ronin is in the doorway, saying something that doesn't make sense.

The sunlight is too bright behind Ronin and he looks so tired, so sad. Nothing like the Ronin who comes over for dinner, who laughs with Dad when they tell stories that make his mother frown and say "Don't give that boy any ideas," the Ronin who patted his head that time Nod ran in to show off his homemade Leafman helmet.

His mother gasps, her hand holding his squeezing too hard but he barely feels the pain. _No way._

No way. Not his dad. Can't be. His dad is amazing. Invincible. Sometimes he doesn't come home for days and when he does he's dirty and weary but always laughing, always with new stories to tell of Boggans he beat and adventures he had.

Nod yanks his hand free from his mother's and runs to his room, ignoring her protests behind him. They're wrong. His dad is going to come home, just like always. And mom will smile and Dad will throw Nod up into the air and catch him and tell him all about Boggans and adventures and battles just like always.

His Leafman helmet, the one Dad helped him make, is lying on the floor. Nod clutches it and watches the door and waits for his father to come home.

Dad _is_ coming home.

He _is_.

Nod will wait as long as he has to.

00

_ANGER_

The wooden training sword is heavy in Nod's hands, his exhausted muscles quivering like fly-snagged spiderwebs but he's not done. His sparring partner Irin lunges again, Nod swinging to block it but then Irin drops low in one fluid sweep (_How does he _do_ that?_) and knocks his legs out from under him, his head cracking back against the mat and stars spraying across his vision.

"Try again, buddy."

Great. That's all he needs. Nod gets to his feet, trying not to sway, ignoring Irin's offered hand up and feeling Ronin's gaze boring into his back.

_Always me. Only me. Would it kill him to glare at somebody else for once?_

Blinking to clear his sight, Nod catches faces turning away, flickers of sidelong glances. He makes the mistake of turning his head and Ronin's eyes meet his, flinty and unyielding but looking through him, not at him. Still searching for a glimpse of his dead friend in the boy who wears his face.

Nod turns back to Irin, trying not to think.

Swords meet sharply, Nod's wrists numbing at the impact. Around them, boots squeal on the sweat-slicked floor, weapons clack loudly together but the murmur "Rok's son" still drifts from somewhere to Nod's ears. His grip on his wooden blade falters.

He knows he should be used to this. Everywhere he goes, "_Hey, that's Rok's son."_ _"When's that boy joining the Leafmen?" "Your father was a great commander. You should at least _try_." "You have that potential, whether you like it or not. You yourself are wasting it."_ Everywhere, whispers and watching eyes and _expectations_.

He'd thought joining might at least shut them all up.

_Why didn't you tell me it would be like this, Dad? Why didn't you prepare me?_

And to think, he used to _want_ to be a Leafman.

Sunlight spears into the training room and glances off Irin's armor, lancing Nod's eyes. The air is too thin, the padded chestplates too tight, too hot, and his father's shadow stretches ahead of him like a tomb in the cramped, stifling hall.

His father, who could take down a hundred Boggans with one hand before lunchtime, who could ride a full-grown stag into battle, but who, damn it all, couldn't fight off a frontline bout of rotleaf fever after one too many covert missions into Wrathwood.

(_Ronin, all those years ago, stooped and grief-haggard in the doorway. "I'm sorry. There was nothing any of us could do, not even the Queen."_)

Then his legs are just _gone_ from underneath him again, the wind knocked out of him as his back hits the floor, gulping for breath and _everyone_ is staring and suddenly it's all too much, he struggles up and flings the sword aside and stomps out, ignoring Ronin's furious shout. "Nod!"

The whispers follow him. Let them talk.

_Dad, why aren't you _here?

00

_BARGIANING_

"That was some nice flyin', kid. Shame I gotta do this to ya."

Nod winces, the grip of the hulking bug behind him crushing his shoulders, trapping him back against a hard thorax. Bufo, the bookie frog, frowns and peers harder at him. _Man, and I thought toads were ugly from a_ distance.

"Hey, I know you. Nod, right? The son of that dead Leafman head honcho."

The bluntness is strangely refreshing, as is the fact that the bug's hold only tightens. Bufo shakes his head. "Guess nobody told ya, kid, but around here, we don't give free passes to celebrities. You mess with my races, you mess with me."

Nod tries to keep his agony off his face. Sucks in a lungful of fresh, sweet air, knowing it could be his last. "Wait, wait! I was… I was _trying_ to get your attention!"

Not entirely true. He's not sure why he did it. Just flying, luxuriating in the cool of night with the rush of wind on his face and nobody telling him what to do. Jumping into the race had been a spur of adrenaline, drunk on freedom, not something he'd really thought through.

"My attention." Bufo glares. "What, you were thinkin' to make a fool of me, show up all my fliers and then ride scot-free off on ol' daddy's coattails?" The other racers, a plant jinn and two bugs, scowl at him. Bufo takes a fistful of Nod's collar, leaning too close. _Ugh, pillbug breath!_ "Cause lemme tell you somethin'—"

"I want to race for you!"

Bufo peers at him. _Wasn't expecting that, huh? To tell the truth, neither was I._ "You wanna race. _You_." The minions all chuckle, but Nod holds his gaze until the toad blinks. "You're not kiddin'?"

Nod shakes his head, Bufo snaps his fingers and the big bug lets go, reluctantly. Nod stumbles, rubbing his aching shoulder in relief. Bufo is shorter than he is, but somehow manages to tower over him as he growls, "Here's the way it works. You wanna race for me, you do what I say. And when I say you lose, you lose. Think you can do that?"

Nod cracks a grin. "Any chance of me winning once in a while?"

The toad actually smiles. "I think we can work that in."

Fixed racing. Gambling. General bad stuff. The last kind of place anybody would expect _Commander_ _Rok's son_ to end up.

Perfect.

"Deal."

"One thing." Bufo leans too close again, his mouth a hard line. This guy could give _Ronin_ lessons. "Around here, it's every jinn for himself. Your little Leafman rules don't apply. You watch your own back, 'cause nobody's gonna watch it for ya, and ain't nobody gonna wipe your ass 'cause you're some famous dude's son."

Nod doesn't flinch. "That's the way I want it."

Amazingly, Bufo chuckles and claps him on the back. Looking _at_ him, not through him. "I think I could get to like you, kid. Welcome to the fold."

00

_DEPRESSION_

The tumult of the party pounds his eardrums, hot wash of lights against the back of his neck. Nod sits alone at a table, not bothering to act like he's enjoying himself. _And I thought_ Nim Galuu _could throw a wild party._

A tankard of thistlebeer in front of him. He's not much of a drinker, but he plans to get used to it, and fast. Bufo calls it the best in the forest, better than the watered-down stuff you get at Nim's, though Nod thinks he can still taste the similarities. Old Nim never would say where he got his from, so Bufo being the supplier isn't much of a shock, but as for where _h_e gets it, the toad isn't talking. But hey, when it's this good, who cares?

_Just another perk of running with Bufo's crowd_, Nod thinks without much enthusiasm. He takes a sip, biting off a wince at the burn.

Bufo himself still hasn't showed up. Said he wanted to talk, which means nothing good, Nod can guess. He doesn't care. So what if he broke the rules and the finish line in today's race? Bufo hasn't let him win once since he joined. If Bufo isn't going to keep his end of the deal, Nod doesn't see why _he_ should, either.

The beer scorches his throat and boils in his gut, making everything syrupy and slow and glorious. A few people watch him, whispering. They don't look for long.

It's _great._

Uh-oh. There's Bufo, swaggering over with two massive goons on either side. A big frown on his face.

Good thing Nod doesn't care.

00

_ACCEPTANCE_

Nod lifts his head, grimacing at the flush of pain in his skull. Cold dirt under his hands. He blinks away blood, can't see out of his left eye, swollen shut. A broken rib, maybe two, knifes him with every gasp.

Crunch of earth under heavy boots. "Had enough of that crowd yet?"

_Oh, perfect_. "Can I help you, Ronin?"

"Actually, I was thinking I might help you."

Nod tongues a loosened tooth. "I'm fine."

"The pulped-meat state of you says otherwise."

"If you brought a speech, save it." He doesn't look up. Doesn't want to see the way he knows Ronin is looking at him, looking for some scrap of his father, even now. Looking for something _salvageable_.

"Nah, no speech. Only to remind that I promised your father I'd look after you. I intend to keep that promise, whether you like it or not."

"I don't need a nursemaid."

"I was thinking more along the lines of a –"

Nod spits blood, less bitter on his tongue than the words. "_Don't_. Say 'friend.'"

Ronin falters. "I was going to say 'Commander.'"

Nod sighs. "You still haven't given up on me."

"No, and I don't ever intend to. Come back to the barracks. Wash your face, start your training over and, this time, stick with it until you make something of yourself."

"And if I don't?"

Shoulderplates clink softly, and he knows Ronin is shrugging. "Then I leave. And you get up and walk back in there, that is if you can still walk, and stay here feeding your blood to froggy and his little gang for a quick penny. After a while, maybe you'll even think you're having fun. But one day you'll wake up in an alley like this one and realize you've made a mistake. You've got potential, I know it and you know it, but the way you're going, by the time you can accept that, it'll be too late. So what's it going to be?"

Nod has to chuckle, though it hurts. "What happened to leaving the speech o'meter at home?"

"Eh, a little improv. Not my strong suit, I'll admit." Nod doesn't have to see to know there's a hand outstretched to him. "What do you say?"

Nod looks up, his eyes hard. "I'm not my dad."

"Yeah, I know." Disappointment on Ronin's face. Sadness. But at _him_.

Well, maybe there's hope yet.

Nod reaches up, accepts the hand.


	3. Mandrake

_DENIAL_

_"NO!"_

Mandrake drives his grackle hard, diving after the plummeting body of his son_, _but not fast enough.

_No! No! No!_

He's off the bird's back before its feet touch the ground, running to the pitiful form lying crumpled in the weeds. He turns Dagda over gently, gathering the broken body in his arms. Blood seeps from the corners of his son's mouth, breath bubbling hoarsely in his chest where the barbed arrow protrudes. Mandrake grips it in his fist, afraid to pull it out. "Son! Son!"

Glazing eyes roll and focus on him. "Dad…" Then he goes slack in his father's arms, head lolling.

Shock fogs over Mandrake's brain. Staring at the dead eyes of his son, waiting for the light to snap back into them, for Dagda to sit up and smile again…

"No…"

He clasps his son to him, fever-hot tears prickling and unshed, his fangs bared in longing for the soft throat of an enemy, for flesh to rend but, as ever, death has none.

He takes Dagda back to Wrathwood, and all who see his face as he carries his son's body past bolt from his path.

He will not consign Dagda to the pit, the great pool of decay at the furthest edge of Wrathwood where their warriors are laid to rest, their bodies broken down in the rot that all dip their spears and arrows in so that lost comrades will be alongside them again on the battlefield. Instead, Mandrake mixes the toxins in his personal storage, the venoms and chemicals that only he dares to use, stirring and brewing until the fumes burn his eyes and his skin blisters from the droplets that spit like sparks from the hissing concoction. He places his son into it and watches as he sinks, flesh and skeleton dissolving, closing over Dagda's peaceful face.

When only a few scraps of rat fur float on the surface, Mandrake rises. His legs stiff from crouching, he braces himself with a hand on the wall. Spongy wood crumbles beneath his fingers. His club clatters to the floor, forgotten.

His preferred perch over Wrathwood, a jagged balcony of splinters on the tallest edge of his tree stump, waits for him in the moonlight. Overlooking his kingdom of bone and ash, numb to its desolate beauty for the first time in his life, his grief surges up at last in a roar that scatters the bats from their roosts and quakes the whole of the forest.

00

_ANGER_

Mandrake calls for Bufo.

The scheming toad has his uses, providing information and occasional fresh supplies in exchange for barrels of Boggan-brewed thistlebeer. Not the easiest creature to work with, always putting up brave fronts, swaggering and throwing insults around just to prove he won't be bullied, that he deserves _more_ of Mandrake's generosity. But a little show of force, having Bufo marched to him at spearpoint instead of the usual lure of offers and subtle threats, might drive home the message that things have changed. The time for making deals and skulking in the shadows is past, and the forest now belongs to the rot.

But, sure enough, the toad arrives with a show his usual insolence, and the Boggan King schools his expression carefully before turning away from the beautiful devastation currently being wrought by his Boggans, the lovely chorus of creaking thunder as trees topple onto the rocks. In the past, he and Dagda held set positions when dealing with Bufo, himself as the cool professional and Dagda the one barely restrained from pouncing for the uppity toad's neck. Today, Mandrake finds himself filling both roles, keeping his voice level and pleasant as he threatens to relieve Bufo of his hoppy little legs.

Bufo sneers and evades questions with more determination than usual, either pouring on the bravado in response to his situation or, perhaps, actually hoping to protect someone. Either way, Mandrake thinks he is to be congratulated on his self-control as the toad grates on his already raw nerves.

Then Bufo says, "That idiot general of yours…"

And Mandrake's sight mists red with wrath and he slams his club into the ground in place of that damned toad's skull until a tree bursts and groans and keels over.

Bufo's eyes widen with terror and he scrabbles back away, tongue knotting itself in squeals for mercy, and Mandrake holds the smoking head of his club too close to the toad's throat, snarling in his face. "_TALK!_"

Bufo whimpers, then bursts out, "Nim Galuu's! They said they were taking the pod to Nim Galuu's!" and Mandrake believes him because Nim Galuu, being Bufo's best customer for the thistlebeer (though no doubt Bufo has kept the old glowworm ignorant of precisely where it comes from), is probably the one person in the world Bufo would be reluctant to betray.

But Mandrake isn't done. He lets the toad breathe for a moment, lets him think he's earned his freedom, then pins him and holds the rot-dipped club high and lets a single, sizzling drop fall into one bulbous eye.

Bufo screams and clutches his face, the eye bursting like an infected boil and the warty skin on that side bubbling and sloughing off. The toad collapses in a blubbering heap at Mandrake's feet and the Boggan King steps back in disgust, waving his guards over. They scramble to drag the sobbing bookie away, not looking their leader in the eye. Mandrake barely notices, still blinking the haze out of his eyes.

He'll admit, he hasn't been himself lately. He has always prided himself on his patience, his ability to keep his temper in check, only dealing out punishment when called for and saving his true ferocity for the Leafmen. A little healthy fear is essential for leadership, after all.

But now he lashes out at the slightest annoyance. Just today he's snapped at three Boggans who made the erroneous mistake of interrupting his thoughts, and came within a hair of crushing the trachea of a fourth. Most of his soldiers cringe back when he approaches, and even his most trusted guards tremble like plucked bowstrings when his cloak sweeps near.

He has to be more careful. Can't let these little rages upset his meticulously laid plans.

Just a bit longer. Then it won't matter.

00

_BARGAINING_

The Boggan world is a harsh one.

Here, there is no one to raise starved muzzles and clasped hands to in plea. The life-giving queen has long turned her back to them. The strong survive, and the weak are denied even the honor of the pit.

Warriors fall every day, and there is always the next battle, the next Leafmen massacre to look ahead to. Nothing to be gained in dwelling, in glancing behind. Mandrake doesn't waste time on regrets, on doubts and things that can't be changed. His choice was made long ago, the day he decided he would lead the Boggans against the Leafmen, that no sacrifice would be too great if it meant he would one day tear the queen out by her roots, would drive the jinn away and leave these lands a festering, magnificent wasteland for his people to thrive in.

But this was _Dagda_. This was _his son._

He will rip the heart out of them, in the form of their precious pod, just as they have torn out his.

00

_DEPRESSION_

The pod is in Wrathwood.

Everything is in place. The pod will bloom in darkness, the forest will fall and the Boggans will have a new prince. All is as it should be.

Mandrake can feel himself on the sheer edge of victory. He can scent it on the sharp night wind, sweeter than rot. The full moon hovers over like a blinded eye, about to bear witness to a new era. The birth of a new world.

His forces lie in wait for the Leafmen who will surely come charging to reclaim the pod. He could have assembled his Boggans at the frontlines of Wrathwood's borders to take aim for the faintest glimmer of green armor, to prevent a single Leafman boot from stepping onto Boggan soil. Instead, he's assembled them in his own lair, leaving their defenses open like a pair of jaws. Let Ronin and his lackeys come, let them have a moment to think they've won. And he has them he'll string them up beneath oozing toxic wastes and watch them wriggle like speared grubs while the flesh peels and melts off them. Decorate his lair with what remains of their bones, or add them to his trophy rack.

His triumph is so near that he tastes it on his fangs. He should be wild with ecstasy right now, should howling his glory from the highest perch of his realm while every Boggan pumps their spears to the sky and echoes his call.

Instead, he rolls Dagda's milk teeth gently in his palm, and feels nothing at all while he waits for his enemies to come.

00

_ACCEPTANCE_

A minor setback, that's all it is. But the fact remains that the pod is on its way to Moonhaven, the moon is climbing to its peak and time is running out.

Mandrake brews his poisons. Outside, his bats are gathering, and beneath the flapping of a thousand leather wings the forest is frozen, holding its breath. Anxiously awaiting the birth of its new queen or, alternately, sensing its annihilation about to rain down.

He smiles at the thought and half-turns to share it, automatic, but stops when he's met with the empty space by his side.

Old habits die hard.

He supposes he'll eventually grow used to it. He must, just as he must obtain a new heir and continue toward the beautiful future that he has dreamt of for so long. The future that he promised to Dagda.

_Soon,_ he vows. _Soon_, as he dips his weapons into rot laced with his son's remains, _they will _all_ pay._


	4. Ronin

_DENIAL_

Tara falls, and Ronin freezes.

Time slows to a snail's crawl, Tara falling gently as a petal on the wind, wide eyes reflecting his shock before she is lost in the storm-lashed trees below.

Only then does then does he move, spurring his mount after, but it's too late.

He finds her on the forest floor. The chosen pod glows in her hands, and a Stomper shrinks before his eyes. He takes Tara from her arms and she looks up at him with the eyes that are still those of the little girl he once knew, before another pod bloomed and everything changed.

She smiles once, then dissolves into light.

Then there are orders to give, a duty still unfinished. He tells Finn "The Boggans won't be looking for a Leafman traveling alone," and cuts off his friend's protests. Finn is right, of course. There are other ways to do this, plenty of them. But Ronin can't return to Moonhaven, not to where, for him, she will still be behind every curtain of foliage, her laugh on every whisper of the leaves, calling to him.

00

_DEPRESSION/BARGAINING_

When the party begins, Nim Galuu takes Ronin aside into a private room and slides a tankard in front of him. The finest thistlebeer in the forest. Ronin pushes it away.

"Come on, Ronin, take a breather," says Nim. "You fulfilled Tara's wish. The forest's as good as saved."

Ronin looks up into the kindly old face, and the questions that have been tearing at him since the start come spilling out. Was there anything he could have done, any way that she could have been saved? Is there is anything that could still possibly be done, because there is nothing, _nothing_ that he wouldn't give…

Nim Galuu's eyes say everything, and Ronin realizes his face is wet.

Something in him, the same barrier that has held him together though the loss of Nod's father, of so many friends and comrades, cracks. His jaw clenches, head bowing to the table, shoulders shaking with suppressed sobs.

Nim pats him on the back. "That's it. It's okay. Really not healthy to keep all that bottled up."

When Ronin looks up again, the glowworm is smiling. "You know Tara wouldn't have wanted you to be miserable."

Ronin pushes back from the table and gets up. No matter what Nim says, the fight isn't over yet. He wipes his eyes harshly and squares his shoulders. There is still work to do.

Nim stays with him while Ronin sends the firebugs off with the message. "Just don't blame yourself. If the scrolls say that there's nothing you could have done, then that's the end of it. You have to know that."

But Ronin knows he never will.

00

_ANGER_

"_You were supposed to stay with the pod!"_

Ronin slams Nod against the wall. The boy is saying something; Ronin can't hear any of it, his ears filled with grackles screeching and the hiss of arrows striking flesh and Mandrake's laughter skewering the thunder…

He lets go of Nod's collar, ignoring the boy's frantic apologies, MK's attempts at explanation. This time, he doesn't bother to collect himself, to hunt for something of his old friend looking out from Nod's eyes. Rok is gone, and there is nothing of him in this boy. How could he have wasted so much time, how could he ever have deluded himself…

The pod is gone.

Mandrake has taken it. Just as he took Tara.

(_Tara. Tara falling, thunder and battering wind and that_ _damned_ laughter…)

_Mandrake._

He'll find the pod, even if he has to march right into Wrathwood. He'll find Mandrake. And this time, he vows as he mounts his hummingbird, only one of them will walk away.

00

_ACCEPTANCE_

Ronin enters the sanctum of Moonhaven, Nod at his side, to findQueen Marigold whirling like a dervish atop the water of the pool, lilypads flocking to support her feet. She sees them and her face lights up. "Hey, Nod!" Trying to hop back onto the shore, she stumbles on the slippery lilies and Nod lunges to catch her. Giggling, she straightens up and Ronin drops to one knee because _somebody_ has to keep formality alive around here. "Your majesty."

"Ronin." She returns the gesture with a respectful nod, but can't suppress the grin that twitches at the corners of her mouth and, for a moment, she reminds Ronin so strongly of another young, new queen that his throat closes up.

He rises, coughs. "We've just received word of Boggan activity in the northern lands. We don't yet know the extent of the destruction they've caused."

"Which means I gotta head down there and bring the green back." She huffs. "What's it _take_ with those guys, anyway? I mean, you already mulched their leader!"

Nod chuckles. "Hey, nobody ever said Boggans were smart."

"Well, I'll knock some sense into 'em." Marigold grinds a fist into her opposite palm. "Let's go already!"

Ronin blocks her path. "Not yet. The Boggans are likely still in the area. It's probably a trap; they want to lure us in there and then take us by ambush. I say we wait. I'll send a few Leafmen to scout the area and get a fix on our enemies' exact location before we make any moves of our own."

"But while I'm sitting here, they'll destroy more forest and it'll be more work for me later!" Marigold cries. "Do you know how _long_ it takes to re-grow a forest, even with these cool new powers? I need to get out there _now!"_

Ronin shakes his head. "We can't go in without a plan."

"Oh, pooh." Marigold frowns. "I already can't put a toe outside of here without a dozen Leafmen watching me. You just don't want me to go anywhere! I have to get out and do, you know, queen stuff if I'm ever gonna get any good at this!"

Ronin sets his jaw. "My first priority is your safety, your majesty."

Queen Marigold switches to a different tactic: clasping her hands behind her back, she stiffens her posture and speaks with imperious calm. "Your concern is appreciated, Ronin, but I'm more than capable of fending for myself."

Nod rubs the back of his neck nervously. "Mari, Ronin does have a point. It probably would be better to wait, just for a little while."

Ronin keeps the shock off his face, but barely.

"Argh!" The queen stamps a petal-slippered foot petulantly. "You're _both _against me!"

"Now look." Ronin's patience is wearing thin. Queen or not, she's a _child_. "When Tara—"

Nod's head snaps up, dark eyes blazing in warning. _Don't._

Ronin stops, taken aback, and Nod looks to the pouting Marigold, his tone assuaging. "Think about it. This way, we'll figure out what they're up to, and we can put together a counterattack. Sure, the cleanup might take longer, but imagine the looks on their faces when we spring their own trap on them!"

Queen Marigold perks up at that, grinning impishly and rubbing her hands together before composing herself. "All right, I accept your plan. But don't keep me waiting long."

Nod and Ronin bow and make their leave, and as they step from the entrance to the queen's sanctum, Ronin lifts an eyebrow at his charge. "Taking my side? What's gotten into you?"

"Let's just say I've learned to trust your instincts." Nod looks sideways at his leader. "But you know, what you were about to say back there? Not a good idea."

"She needs guidance. She needs to know—"

Nod's voice hardens. "What she d_oesn't_ need is you hanging a dead person over her. Just… ease up on her. She's young. That shadow she has to step out of is big enough as it is."

"That's just it, though. She doesn't seem to grasp—"

"She _does_. Maybe you'd realize that if you'd just—!" Nod stops, a cold glint in his eyes, like an unsheathed blade. He draws a ragged breath. "Look, just… back off a little. Let her figure things out her way. And let her know that if he needs help, she can ask."

Guilt twists Ronin's heart. "Could've avoided a lot if I'd done the same with you, huh?"

"Yeah, but don't beat yourself up." Nod cracks a shade of his old grin, and gives Ronin a playful punch to the shoulder. "You've made a lot of progress. Just keep working at it."

Ronin watches the younger soldier walk off and thinks that, one day, Nod might take his place at the head of the Leafmen. Stranger things have happened. But until then, they all have a long way still to go.

The forest needs all of them, and that's enough.

But, sometimes, when he walks or flies alone, he thinks he can hear Tara's laughter in the trees, can feel her caressing fingers in the breeze on his face. In those moments, he spots a twinkle of gold that isn't firefly or star, and he finds a way to smile again.

* * *

Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed.


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